


La Beauté du Diable de l'Esprit

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Absinthe, Canon Era, First Meetings, Gen, Opium, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac's first two weeks in Paris are entirely unlike what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Beauté du Diable de l'Esprit

_Autumn, 1826._

“Remember,” his father had told him earlier that morning, sternness creasing his brow. “You are here to become a lawyer. You will take over my practice one day and have others rely on you. You are here to work hard, to excel at your studies. You are _not_ here to idle about nor participate in frivolities- _are you listening to me, Alexandre?_ ”

Yes, Courfeyrac had been listening. He had been listening to his father remind him of his duties, of all that was expected of him, for a full two weeks since their arrival in Paris. He had been hoping for a quick farewell once he was enrolled in the law school and settled in his flat, but his father had shepherded him around the city instead. They had visited countless salons and Parisian associates and old law school friends, and Courfeyrac, as he had fidgeted in stuffy sitting room after stuffy sitting room, suspected this was less to introduce him to the right people and more to keep him out of trouble for as long as possible.

At long last, his father was required to return to Aix-en-Provence, though not without one final lecture, and extracting a promise that Courfeyrac would attend class that day. Yet despite his newfound freedom, Courfeyrac could not suppress a heavy sense of disappointment.

Courfeyrac had imagined Paris to be full of adventure and new opportunities. He had expected to eat in cafés with friends, attend dance halls, meet a great number of interesting and exciting new people, and yet here he was, falling asleep during a lecture led by a man who might have been the dullest professor – nay, dullest _human being_ – in existence. He had not attended a single party. He had not even met another person his own age. Courfeyrac disliked feeling sorry for himself, but the utter bleakness of the past fortnight did nothing for his mood. He wilted in his seat, until a voice near him spoke.

“Good God…” Someone was muttering from behind him. “Blondeau is looking more corpse-like by the year. How is it possible that the force of his own tedium has not killed him? Perhaps he feeds upon it. The boredom of his students is the only thing preventing his collapse into dust.”

Courfeyrac stifled a laugh and looked over his shoulder. The speaker was a young man, perhaps a few years older than he was, with thinning hair and a worn blue coat. He was slumped behind his desk with a careless sort of grace, picking idly at a thread from his sleeve, but glanced up when he realized Courfeyrac had heard him. He smiled, a little slyly.

“Apologies if I’ve interrupted either your learning or your daydreaming- depending on what type of student you happen to be. Though by the look on your face, I suspect you agree with me.”

“I suspect everyone in this room would agree with you,” Courfeyrac whispered, grinning. “Can you imagine the person who finds himself enthralled by a lecture like this one? I’d be loath to meet him, should he exist. I do hope not all the classes are like this one.”

“ _Unfortunately,_ I have bad news for you,” the other man said. “Blondeau is by far the worst, though the other professors are not much better.” He looked at Courfeyrac appraisingly. “I take it this is your first year of school? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yes, I arrived in Paris two weeks ago but I, ah… I haven’t been out much.”

“Well, where are you staying?”

“Oh, here in the Latin Quarter- the Hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques.”

The other man grinned wider. “Ah, good! The Latin Quarter is the place to be- especially if you are the type of student I think you are, if you catch my meaning. I stay around the area, here and there. I’m Lesgle, by the way – or Légle, Laigle, or even L’Aigle if you prefer – of Meaux.”

Courfeyrac took a second to work this out, but when he did, he laughed aloud. “Well, after the last couple of weeks I’ve had, I’m very pleased to meet you! I’m-“

_“If the lesson is boring you, perhaps it would be preferable to everyone here that you leave immediately, Monsieur de Courfeyrac!”_

Courfeyrac started. He had been so absorbed in his conversation, he hadn’t realized how loudly he was speaking, and Blondeau had come up behind him, unnoticed. Before he could stop himself, he said, “If you please, Professor- the particle is a meaningless affectation of the aristocracy. My father clings to it; I want no part of it. Just ‘Courfeyrac’ will do for me.”

Behind him, Lesgle choked with laughter, as did several of his fellow students. Blondeau narrowed his pale, watery eyes.

“I taught your father years ago, boy, and remember him quite well. He was a model student, but it seems respect for this institution and obedience to one’s advisors does _not_ run in your family.”

“With all due respect, Professor- I certainly hope you are correct.” Courfeyrac favored Blondeau with his most charming smile, and laughter burst out of Lesgle before he could stifle it. Blondeau rounded on him instead.

“Ah, _Monsieur Lesgle_. What an unexpected pleasure to see you present here today. I am certain you and Monsieur de Courfeyrac will make fast friends- you both seem to hold the same philosophy for education, and in _barely thirty minutes_ , you have proven yourself a corrupting influence on the new students.”

“Professor,” said Lesgle calmly. “I’m sure you are mistaken here. My new colleague has politely asked you not to use the particle while addressing him.”

Blondeau’s expression went from sour to murderous in a heartbeat.

“Get out of this lecture hall. Just- go. Do not bother returning.”

Entirely unruffled, Lesgle shrugged and, after gathering his belongings, sauntered out. Blondeau shot one last warning look at Courfeyrac before walking back up to the front of the hall to finish the rest of the lesson, which Courfeyrac spent in an uncomfortable state of guilt. He bolted out of the room as soon as it was over.

Though Courfeyrac searched, hoping for a chance to apologize and speak further, there was no sign of Lesgle in the hallways or outside of the Sorbonne. Dismayed, Courfeyrac made to reenter the building for his next lesson, but a heavy hand on his shoulder made him stop short. He turned, and found himself face to face with another student, a little taller and broader than he was, which he had always thought was no easy feat. The student was wearing a waistcoat, so brightly red that it hurt to look at it, and a crooked, roguish grin.

“Congratulations on a successful first lesson! Really, I haven’t seen the like in many years- not that I make a habit of frequenting the law school. The air around here _alone_ is enough to make one grievously ill. I have even heard tell of those who have entered once too often, and have ended up _lawyers_ as a result, which is far worse.”

“Oh, is that so,” Courfeyrac chuckled. “That is quite a _useful_ bit of information- I suppose I should follow your lead, then.”

“That you should.” The man clapped him on the shoulder jovially. “I should introduce myself. I am Bahorel, and I could not help overhearing your name, as you were very busy being told off.”

“Indeed,” said Courfeyrac, trying and failing to maintain an expression of gravity, which only made Bahorel smile wider. “Though our professor seemed to make it a point to fling the unwanted particle at me instead of addressing me properly.”

“You are clearly in the wrong company, then,” said Bahorel, in mock seriousness. “It will have to be remedied. Though you are new here, you seem to understand the correct way of things. Listen, New Friend Courfeyrac- some associates and I are having a little _gathering_ , if you will, at an old friend’s residence. You really must attend; your rejection of everything that is probably expected of you demands it. Say you’ll come.”

“I’ll come,” Courfeyrac said, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. “Lord knows I could do with a party- I have only just been released from my father’s _jurisdiction_.”

“A celebration of freedom, then!” Bahorel grinned again, and turned to leave instead of heading back up the law school steps. “Tonight, anytime after sunset, really. Number 24 Rue de la Mortellerie- ask the concierge for Monsieur Jean Prouvaire.”

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac spent the rest of the day in a state of excitable distraction. His first party as a Parisian student! Perhaps he had been too quick to despair over his circumstances; he _was_ new to the city, after all. The situation was turning around quite nicely.

His final lecture of the day had ended; Lesgle had been entirely correct in saying that the rest of the courses were as horrifically boring as Blondeau’s. Courfeyrac rushed back to his flat and spent a great deal of time ensuring he was the perfect picture of a proper, modern dandy. It wouldn’t do to make a sloppy impression at one’s first time out amongst peers.

Finally, hat set in place over impeccably curled hair, and cravat tied with perfect artistry, Courfeyrac set out. He was not yet terribly familiar with the layout of the streets, much less the areas where students were likely to live, as he had only been to the residences of his father’s friends. After a few wrong turns, he found the street he needed across the Seine and near the Hôtel de Ville.

The concierge of 24 Rue de la Mortellerie gave him a vague wave up the stairs to the second floor. Courfeyrac knocked on the door of what he supposed was Jean Prouvaire’s flat, hurriedly brushing dust from the streets from his coat and smoothing his lapels. He could hear the murmur of voices and the soft notes of a stringed instrument behind the door before someone answered. Courfeyrac put on his best smile, but it faltered immediately.

A plume of smoke, thicker and sweeter than that of tobacco, drifted out onto the landing. Head swimming, Courfeyrac tried to compose himself, but was instead taken aback once he had focused on the man in the doorway.

The man was dressed in the oddest assortment of clothing Courfeyrac had ever seen. A long violet coat with fraying seams, much too big for him, was draped over his frame, making him seem rather more thin and spidery than he actually was. Underneath this: a checked yellow waistcoat, pink cravat tied in a bow, striped trousers, and cuffed boots with lace sticking up from their loose shafts. On his head was a dilapidated top hat, a crumpled feather tucked into the hatband on one side and a clump of dead peonies on the other.

Courfeyrac struggled to find the proper words. He knew he was being impolite; gaping at a party’s host went against everything he had ever learned about gentility, but he couldn’t seem to recover himself. In all fairness, the other man seemed thoroughly confused by Courfeyrac’s own fashionable clothing, and squinted at him silently, head tilted. He was swaying slightly, clutching the doorknob.

Both men were spared from further awkwardness by Bahorel, who had wandered toward them as soon as the door opened. His voice cut through the hum of the room.

“Ah, you made it! Jehan, let the fellow in, for God’s sake- you can gawp at each other later.” He clapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder. “I’m pleased to see you made it here. Courfeyrac, this is Jean Prouvaire- our host. Jehan, I found Courfeyrac at the Sorbonne today. A baby lawyer- fresh from his parents’ nest.” Courfeyrac felt slightly put out by this description of himself and opened his mouth to protest, but Bahorel’s laugh cut him off.

“Now, don’t be offended! A party is no place to be getting offended. You are new, but you have the correct mindset, as I was saying earlier.” Courfeyrac was ready to make another jest about the tediousness of the law school, but Bahorel had turned to Jean Prouvaire and added, happily: “He openly strives to reject the aristocracy and encourages others to do the same- even if those ‘others’ are decrepit law professors who are beyond all hope! It warms the heart of my illustrious peasant forefathers. I couldn’t be more proud of someone who I have only just met.” Jean Prouvaire merely smiled vaguely and ushered them inside, closing the door.

The three of them crossed the dimly lit room, passing groups of other attendees as they made their way to find empty seats. Wherever Courfeyrac turned, there seemed to be another nook or cranny filled with strange assortments of artifacts: ancient rugs, cracked vases, stuffed creatures. There was even a set of skulls on one of the windowsills. A great number of other guests were tucked into corners, sitting both in chairs and on the floor, talking in hazy, indistinct voices. Most were drinking; some had pipes clutched between their teeth. One was plucking the strings of an oddly shaped lyre as he nodded off against a wall covered by a dusty, wine-colored curtain. Courfeyrac, in his crisp tailcoat and white cravat, felt rather out of place.

Toward the back of the room, they found an area free of other people. Bahorel directed Courfeyrac to a divan, and then sat beside him. Jean Prouvaire handed them both glasses of drink and then fixed Bahorel with a perplexed stare.

“ _You_ were in class?”

Bahorel shrugged. “I realize I will probably live to regret that decision, but alas- my parents will not send me money if I am crossed off the roster before the end of the first week. A terrible, though necessary, sacrifice.”

“I haven’t seen you in class,” Courfeyrac said to Jean Prouvaire. “Do you also study law?”

 _“Law?”_ Prouvaire repeated. He sat down heavily on the floor.

“Ah- yes?”

“No. I don’t study law.” He did not continue.

In Aix-en-Provence, Courfeyrac’s parents hosted the occasional party. These events may have been a little stiff, too proper, but conversation with guests was something Courfeyrac had always enjoyed. He had a talent for the art and the more he practiced, the more he excelled. Of course, it was easy to speak with a guest who was already talkative, but the most satisfying aspect of parties was to engage with someone who was reticent, to cheerfully draw them out and make an acquaintance who may have been otherwise overlooked. To ensure everyone, even those uncomfortable or inept in social situations, was having a good time. Undeterred, Courfeyrac remembered the skulls on the window ledge and tried again.

“Ah, so you must be at the medical school, then. I have not met anyone who attends yet! I have heard it takes a great deal of work- much more than law.”

“No,” said Prouvaire. He pulled out a pipe and lit it. “I don’t attend the medical school.”

Bahorel was shaking with laughter and seemed much keener to watch the conversation play out than to rescue either participant. Courfeyrac shifted uncomfortably, took a sip of his drink, and nearly spit it out. When he had expected wine, he had tasted absinthe. In the darkness of the room, he had not noticed. Bracing himself, he took another gulp.

“Well, then. If you study neither law nor medicine, what do you study? Surely you must be a student.”

Jean Prouvaire removed his pipe from his mouth slowly and looked up at Courfeyrac. Though his gaze was steady, his eyes seemed unfocused, and his voice suddenly grew louder. “A student. Yes- I am a student. A student of life, of its intermingling joys and sorrows, of putting into words that which is impossible to express. Of death also- though is it not the same thing? Existence itself is a perfect mélange of the beautiful and the grotesque- one or the other or both at once. An intermingling of contradictions. What is life, but a succession of little deaths?”

Bahorel snorted into his drink. “That depends on what you do in your idle time, Jehan!”

Prouvaire attempted an imperiously offended expression, but merely ended up looking petulant. “Throwing irreverence into the face of candor! It is not as though you don’t subscribe to the Romantic. It is not as though you don’t see both faces of the world! It is not as though-“ He seemed ready to go into a full-blown fit of passion.

“Now, Jehan, what did I say about being offended at parties?” Bahorel lit his own pipe and offered it to Courfeyrac, who accepted it without much thought.

“You cannot make a jest when I am being serious,” Jean Prouvaire said, cheeks reddening. “You- you _cannot-_ “

“Surely you know by now that I can and will.”

Courfeyrac drained his glass and poured himself a refill, despite feeling rather dizzy already. Attempting to mitigate any hurt feelings, he cast about for a suitable change of topic. His eyes landed on Prouvaire’s bookshelf, and immediately spotted a worn translation of _The Devil’s Elixirs_. Of course such a novel would appeal to Prouvaire’s interests. He took a deep drag on the pipe and interrupted the conversation with a question about doppelgängers. Prouvaire was placated at once.

 

* * *

 

There was only darkness and then, slowly, the world wobbled back into existence. It was a fog. Courfeyrac was unsure of how he knew this, as he did not bother opening his eyes to check, but he was certain the entire thing was a fog. He had been lying on something soft for eons. Time stretched onward, but it didn’t matter; he was so heavy he could not have risen if he had tried. He might, he thought dully, be so incredibly heavy that he would sink straight through where he was prone and pop out the other side. Perhaps he would sink through the entire world, and become one with the fog. His father would certainly not approve of him being a fog. He wanted to laugh at the idea, but was too dizzy. He wondered if he was going to be ill.

“Good Lord. What have you done to him?”

“Oh, now- he’ll be fine. Jehan, leave him alone.”

Courfeyrac managed to crack open an eye. He had been right- the world was a dark, blurry expanse. Some distance away, two blobs of color sat side-by-side. The smaller blob, violet in color, rose and wavered toward him, leaving its scarlet fellow behind. Courfeyrac tried to watch it, but the movement made his stomach clench, and he shut his eyes again.

“Hullo there? Law student?”

The blob was addressing him. Before he could attempt an answer, someone forced open one of his eyes. He jerked his head back and turned his face into whatever he was lying on, a wave of nausea washing over him after the sudden movement. There was a sympathetic sigh from above him.

“You have killed your baby lawyer, Bahorel. He was talking about a Gothic novel and fell over sideways. I had wanted to hear the rest of the story. It’s a pity.”

A booming laugh exploded through the fog, and Courfeyrac was too heavy to wince away from the sound. “A pity! Well, if he is deceased then maybe you’ll have a new skull for your collection, hmm? It doesn’t sound like a pity to me.”

Horrified, Courfeyrac tried to get up, to get away. He didn’t want his skull taken from him! _How was he to make new friends in Paris without a skull?_ He still could not move or make a sound. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, however, because the loud laugh rang out again.

“Don’t worry yourself, my friend! We are only teasing about the skull- though Jehan would probably take it from you if he had the chance. There’s a friendly warning for you! In all seriousness, though- walking around without an impressively thick skull would be the least aristocratic thing imaginable. It would enrage your family. Does that not appeal to you, de Courfeyrac?”

 _De!_ Courfeyrac finally managed to move upon hearing the particle. He let out an indignant sound and rolled right off the divan where he had been laying and onto the floor.

Darkness enveloped him yet again.

 

* * *

 

When Courfeyrac next awoke, he was in his own room, in his own bed, lying in a patch of cheery sunlight. He had a splitting headache. He rolled over, buried his face in a pillow, and tried to piece together the previous night.

Obviously, he had managed to exit the party, if one could call it that, cross the river, and enter his own flat. He did not remember doing any of this. Evidently, he had managed to divest himself of coat, hat, and one shoe. He did not remember doing this either.

As he was pondering, there was a knock at the door. Courfeyrac nestled further into his bedding, wishing for whoever was calling to simply leave. The knocking persisted, however, and so he rose, so unsteadily that he had to catch himself on the bedroom’s doorframe to prevent himself from falling.

The sitting room was in complete chaos. Cushions and books and chair stuffing were strewn every which way. There was a suspicious rustling noise coming from a large pile of papers and clothing near the stove. Courfeyrac took it all in with a vacant sort of acceptance, and traversed the mess to answer the door. It was Lesgle.

“My God. What on earth _happened?”_

“Oh, well…” Courfeyrac tried to laugh ruefully, but it made his stomach churn. “I, ah- I suppose I got rather carried away at a party last night. Overindulged, you know.”

“A party, or a hurricane?”

“A _party!”_ said a loud voice. “And a fine one, at that. It’s a shame your time in class was cut so short, or I would have invited you, too.” Bahorel had come up the stairs, grinning and looking no worse for wear despite the previous night. Jean Prouvaire drifted behind him in his odd clothes, still wearing a sleepy and unfocused expression.

“Hmm. Now I know what happened to you,” Lesgle muttered to Courfeyrac. “And don’t trouble yourself, Bahorel. Bouzingo parties are not to my taste; I’d rather go to the café, which is what I was about to invite Courfeyrac here to do. He could use some breakfast, I think. Why don’t you come along with us? It seems you’ve somehow already met.”

“Of course,” said Bahorel. “We met after class yesterday, and I decided to take him under my wing, as it were.”

“That seems to have turned out very well for him,” said Lesgle, dryly.

“It did indeed! We had an excellent time at the party, didn’t we? And though it was not quite as _lively_ as it is ordinarily, we still had to carry Courfeyrac home, and I felt the need to check on him this morning- to ensure he is still alive. As you can see, he is. He even met a lovely goose on the banks of the Seine on the way back here, which he tearfully demanded I let him bring along. And so I did. How could I refuse such passion?” Here, Jean Prouvaire nodded solemnly.

“I did _what?”_ Courfeyrac was flabbergasted. From somewhere behind him, the mysterious rustling continued.

Lesgle was staring at Bahorel, aghast. "Wait a moment.  _You were in class?”_

“ _Yes._ If only to ensure I have ample funds to treat my _dear friends_ to breakfast, as some amongst our number seem to be perpetually lacking, _Bossuet._ ”

“Bossuet,” Courfeyrac repeated. He started to laugh again, a little desperately, but it made his head throb. “ _You_ know each other?”

“Bahorel knows everyone,” said Lesgle. “It’s quite astounding, really. Now, won’t you get dressed and come out with us? Unless, of course, you would rather sit through another of Blondeau’s lectures.”

“I probably shouldn’t.” Guilt crept up on Courfeyrac again. “And I should apologize- I really am sorry I got you thrown out of Blondeau’s class.”

“Oh, it was bound to happen eventually,” Lesgle said cheerfully. “It happens all the time, actually.”

“And I’m sorry you had to escort me home last night,” Courfeyrac added to Bahorel and Prouvaire. “I won’t let that happen again.”

“Why not? Again, this sort of thing happens- _all of the time._ ”

“Indeed. I don’t really understand why you are apologizing,” said Lesgle, frowning. “Is your conscience absolved? Will you get dressed and come to breakfast now? I have another friend who will be joining us, not that he will mind being kept waiting. In fact, he is possibly much too drunk to even notice our tardiness, but in any case- I’m hungry! _Breakfast awaits!”_

Courfeyrac still hesitated. Bahorel sighed heavily.

“All right. So, you did a few things you had never done before. Overindulged. Made a few decisions that would shock and scandalize your parents. _Good,_ I say. You are a Parisian law student now - that is to say, a degenerate - and most importantly, you have met the three of us. You had better get used to it.” Bahorel beamed; Bossuet gave Courfeyrac a wry grin. Jean Prouvaire wavered a little where he stood, but managed a gentle smile.

At last, Courfeyrac’s uneasiness dissipated.

“Oh, all right, then.”

Though he could not find his hat, Courfeyrac pulled on his coat and shoe and, ignoring the suspicious rustling – it would be dealt with later – walked down the stairs with his three friends and out onto the streets of the city.

**Author's Note:**

> Courfeyrac's first name was adopted, with permission, from [bobbiewickham](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham)!


End file.
